


Pagan Love Song

by rixie_rhee



Series: In the Mood [4]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Cute, F/M, Fluff, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 23:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12714579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie_rhee/pseuds/rixie_rhee
Summary: He points at the night sky. “See? That’s Taurus. And see that cluster?” Rissy eyes flick upwards fleetingly and she nods; after that her eyes don’t leave Nix’s face. “That’s the seven sisters, the pleiads. Daughters of Atlas and Pleione.” She only turns her glance skyward again when he stops talking.“I only see six.”“Merope was the seventh sister, the lost pleiad. She fell in love with a mortal man and she gave up her place amongst the gods to marry him.” Nix tugs Rissy’s hair free from the last of its pins and the long strands float around her, a dark veil.“Maybe she doesn’t think she’s lost, Lew. Maybe she thinks she was found.” She pauses. “Were they happy? Merope and the mortal?”“It’s Greek mythology. No one ends up happy.”“It doesn’t have to be that way.”





	Pagan Love Song

The picnic hamper dangles from Nix’s hand, Rissa has the blanket under her arm, and her bare legs and feet are dappled with leafy shadows. Picnics can be lovely, romantic; but not today when everything seems to be wilting and the air is so thick you could swim in it. But still, it’s time alone and the humid afternoon will be followed by the late summer dusk. On their meandering way back to the borrowed car, the come upon a copse of trees hiding a natural pool.

The water looks cool and very clear, there are mossy rocks at the bottom, the whole thing is fed by a narrow stream that isn’t visible until you’re nearly on top of it. The day is uncomfortably hot; they’re both covered in the sticky sort of sweat that itches and refuses to dry. It gets in Rissa’s eyes and stings. She has a mosquito bite on the back of her calf that has swelled up into a hard, red lump. He watches her stop when she bends her knee to scratch at it--she’s perched on one leg momentarily in the waning light, her fair skin is painted gold by a sun set low in the sky. When she turns to look at him over one shoulder there are glints of gold in her hair and in her eyes as well. His heart squeezes; everything about her is precious to him.

“God, that looks…inviting, doesn’t it?” She dips the toes of one foot into the water. Her eyes shut, Nix can read in her face exactly what she wants to do. To be fair, it’s not that hard to hazard a guess, Nix wants to jump in headfirst himself.

“Yeah, it does.” He smacks the back of his neck. “It’s so goddam _hot_.”

“Lise says this kind of weather is only good for one thing.” It’s stifling even in the leafy shade. It looks like it should be cool and green, but it’s not, it’s only slightly less hot and just as muggy. Rissy’s face is flushed pink, the roses in her cheeks are exaggerated in the weighted late summer sunset. “I think she’s wrong, though. It’s too hot to even think about touching.”

“Are you sure that’s what she meant?”

“It’s Lise. I know what she meant. She didn’t mean swimming.” Rissy’s face is wistful when she looks down at the water. She lowers herself to the grassy edge, dipping her hands into the water and cupping them to bring it to her face. Rivulets course own the back of her neck, wetting the tendrils of hair at her nape and darkening the collar of her dress.

“Are you saying you don’t want me to lay you down right here and do unspeakable things to you?”

“For a wonder, yes.”

“I never thought I’d see the day, Rissy.”

“I feel like I’m melting.”

Honestly, Nix feels that way, too. He’s down to his undershirt and trousers and even so, his clothes are sticking to him. He turns, his eyes flick at the surrounding countryside. There’s no one else there. This is a small miracle brought on by friendly gods. He glances around again and then moves to sit beside her in the fragrant grass. Her dress is some green thing wrapped around her. Not drab, though, green like spring leaves or tender new blades of grass. He plucks at the belt, wondering if it would come open or if it only looks that way. She pushes his hand away and he shakes his head, then nods toward the water and raises an eyebrow.

She looks at him for a moment and there’s a ghost of a smile playing around her lips. Then a bird startles somewhere nearby and she looks up. The line of her throat is white and soft and vulnerable.

“Have you ever--?”

“Been swimming? Of course. There was a swimming hole in our woods. Hazel and I went all the time. And Johnny and Tom. And my mom and dad when we were little. I swam in high school. You know that.” A barely noticeable shrewish tone creeps into her voice. Nix tells himself it’s only because she’s hot and uncomfortable.

Nix pictures her for moment. She would be in a modest swimsuit and a cap to cover her hair. He can almost smell the chlorine. “No, not swimming. Well, not just swimming.” His eyebrow raises again and he smirks at her.

“Naked?” Her voice is so low she’s barely speaking, but he can read the word on her lips.

He nods in an exaggerated motion, Rissy shakes her head.

“It _is_ tempting…” Her voice trails off. “But anyone could come by, this is open countryside.”

“Isn’t that part of the fun?” His face is a dare, and that’s when he knows he has her. When they’re alone, behind closed doors or even in the concealing darkness, she’ll do whatever he wants. She likes it when he gently pushes her, but she’s never been undressed outside. He sees the puckish smile she tries to hide, and without looking at her, Nix quickly strips off the last of his clothes. He dives into the cold, clear water and it’s like being reborn. His feet can’t touch the bottom, so he treads with only his head and shoulders above the surface. His hair is plastered to his head in a sleek helmet, dripping onto his neck. It feels wonderful.

Her chin juts forward and she squints at him. Her small hands are deliberate. Her belt falls to the ground and she unties something at the side of her dress. It does come open. Her slip joins the growing pile of clothing strewn on the ground.

She’s poised at the edge, toes curled around a sun-warmed rock. He can see her muscles tense, she’s prepared to spring. Before she can, he interrupts her and she nearly falls. If she did, he would catch her and hold her, but her underwear would be sopping wet.

“What will you wear home? You should give them at least the leeway to be able to pretend, Rissy.” Nix grins up at her lasciviously. “Besides, I’ve seen you naked, honey. I’ve seen you naked and begging for my--”

“Lew!”

“If that’s what you want to call it.” He shrugs, pretending to be noncommittal. In truth, it’s almost as intoxicating as a tumbler of the good old Vat 69 when little mewls and pleases fall from her mouth. And afterwards when everything is spent and she’s soft and pliant, or when she listens to every word he says with stars in her eyes, or when that indulgent tone comes into her voice, or when she gently teases him or kisses him, or when she’s in the same room, or when she breathes.

His girl only shakes her head, and a minute later her underthings join the rest of their clothes. Her dive is a tight, quick movement. Her body jack-knifes and he can see her through the ripples. Her arms pull her all the way down and she kicks back up. Nix’s mermaid surfaces next to him with a huge exhale and a spray of droplets. Her freckles have become more pronounced over the summer. They dot her shoulders, too, and he traces shapes on Rissy’s creamy skin. He drops a kiss in the hollow above her collarbone; her wet skin is cool against his lips. He finds her mouth for several minutes, until she laughs and splashes him. But the laugh is low and throaty and she’s only swimming away so he’ll swim after her.

She is quick, though, a strong swimmer. Breast stroke and front crawl, and a few minutes of back stroke so he can leer at her and she can pretend to be shocked. After that little display, he chases her in earnest. When she’s between him and the bank, there’s nowhere left for her to go. He grips at the grass with one arm and the other is tight around her waist; Rissy clings to Nix. He can taste the last vestiges of wine in their kisses and the water, too. They’re pressed together, rubbing, and her legs are locked around his waist. Nix pulls her down but Rissy shakes her head.

“It’s too close, Lew,” she whispers hoarsely. “It’s just too close.”

He nods and there’s kissing and touching until the air cools around them and their fingers and toes prune. When the stars come out, they seem impossibly near. Nix gazes upward and then he smiles. No games, no playful lechery, no dry sarcasm. Rissy follows his gaze and then looks back at him, asking a question without a word.

He points at the night sky. “See? That’s Taurus. And see that cluster?” Rissy eyes flick upwards fleetingly and she nods; after that her eyes don’t leave Nix’s face. “That’s the seven sisters, the pleiads. Daughters of Atlas and Pleione.” She only turns her glance skyward again when he stops talking.

“I only see six.”

“Merope was the seventh sister, the lost pleiad. She fell in love with a mortal man and she gave up her place amongst the gods to marry him.” Nix tugs Rissy’s hair free from the last of its pins and the long strands float around her, a dark veil.

“Maybe she doesn’t think she’s lost, Lew. Maybe she thinks she was found.” She pauses. “Were they happy? Merope and the mortal?”

“It’s Greek mythology. No one ends up happy.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“I’m beginning to think that maybe it doesn’t.” She smiles up at him and her dimples come out to play among the freckles, his lips curve up and this is no smirk or half-smile. The sky deepens above them and Nix and Rissy forget about almost everything but each other, though they do keep one pertinent fact in mind, as to avoid any complications in the future.

It is very romantic, really, if you ignore the clouds of gnats and the mooing of cows--that’s what Nix is thinking when he suddenly pulls back from their embrace when he realizes someone is coming. Off-key singing is getting closer and closer, and then there are snapping twigs and audible footsteps. Nix whirls, creating an eddy around himself, in time to see a decidedly lanky and sweaty farmer leading his cows back home. The man breaks through the copse of trees and mops his forehead with a large white handkerchief that flutters like a moth in the dark.

The moon and the stars provide enough light that the pile of discarded clothing is plainly visible, and so is Nix, although he tries to shield Rissy with his own body. He tells himself it is dark, but the water is clear and the moon in bright. He might play, but--yeah, dammit--he loves her and he doesn’t want anyone else to see her nakedness. That’s only for him, and besides the possibility of being caught is fun; actually getting caught is not. The farmer laughs and Nix does, too, albeit a bit sheepishly.

“Out for a swim?”

“I was hot.”

The man nods and then prods Rissa’s dress with the toe of his shoe. “And do you Yanks always wear ladies’ dresses when trespassing, or is this a special occasion?”

“It is,” Nix deadpans, “a very special occasion.” Rissy giggles behind him, and her breasts press into his back. One of her arms snakes around his shoulders, her other hand stays under the water and he feels it on his ass.

“I see, then. Have a lovely evening, won’t you?” he winks at Rissa. “You, too, miss.”

“Yes, sir, thank you. You have a lovely evening, too.” Rissy’s voice is sweet, her eyes dance even in the dark, and her hand brushes one of the more interesting pieces of Nix’s anatomy. She ducks her head into Nix’s neck, and she’s not ashamed at all, even if she doesn’t realize it. The farmer grins and Rissy and Nix grin back. He mops his forehead again and limps away with his cows. He smiles to himself at the quiet laughter and splashing behind him. He was young once, too.

Sometime later, Nix grabs his watch and peers at it, the numbers illuminated green in the dark. “It’s almost inexcusably late. We need to go.” He hoists himself up and Rissy admires everything about the way he’s put together before he turns to help her out of the water.

He pulls her up and out. Their wet skin is covered in gooseflesh, the air is rapidly cooling, and her nipples are stiff--and so is Nix. He reaches to touch her, gently, and he murmurs into her throat, something about the birth of Venus. His hand trails down her wet belly and then lower and lower still, but she doesn’t shield herself from him, and he finds her wet in a different way.

She neatly sidesteps his roaming hand, but she gives him a little twirl, giggling until he stops her in the cage of his arms. He’s still babbling nonsense, that Venus was the goddess of love, but she was the goddess of victory, too.

“I don’t think I want to be a goddess, Lew. Wasn’t she married with all kinds of lovers?” Rissy realizes what she’s said and holds up a hand, shaking her head. That’s not what she meant at all. “What if I’m a nymph? Just part of the retinue? That way I can be just yours.”

“Would that make me a satyr?”

“A follower of Dionysius? That fits,” she teases. “Except that you’re beautiful.” There she’s not teasing at all.

Rissy’s lips are warm on his. He strokes the fur between her legs again, finds the wetness with the tips of his fingers.

“See? I always want you,” she whispers to him.

“Brazen little nymph.”

“Incorrigible satyr.”

“Oh, I’m very, very corrigible. Let me show you how well I can learn.” Fingers and lips wander, but on this occasion, it’s all loving and sweet. The grass is cool and damp, but the earth beneath it still holds warmth from the sun. When it far past inexcusably late, they reluctantly untangle and dry off with the picnic blanket. Little shreds of grass stick to their skin. Nix plucks a single sprig of lily of the valley and places it in Rissy’s hair, behind her ear.

“You shouldn’t touch that too much,” she tells him. “It can give you arrhythmias.”

“You give me arrhythmias,” he says back, but he takes her hand and their fingers interlace. When he lets go, it’s only to put his arm around her.

Back in the car, Nix’s shirt and jacket and Rissy’s stockings and their boots and shoes are waiting. He drives with one hand, his right arm out the open window. Rissy’s cuddled to his side, her feet propped on the dashboard. His arm is around her, his hand resting on her ribs were he can feel them expand and contract with each inhalation and exhalation. It rests there companionably and a moment later her hand covers his and her fingers trace his knuckles. He could be twenty again, before all this shit started.

It is very, very late when Nix kisses her good-night on the back porch. Tiny insects surround the light over the back door, Nix can hear the minute taps when they bump into it. There is still a light on inside and someone is puttering around in the kitchen. It must be Mrs. Miller, who is another night owl at heart.

“I’m a mess, Lew,” Rissy whispers. Her hair is damp and starting to curl around her face, her dress is rumpled; she smells like clean, fresh water. She’d started out the afternoon prettily neat but he likes her better the way she is now. She really could be a nymph, a hastily dressed one to resemble a human girl.

“There’s no way you can pretend you were doing anything other than what she’s going to think we were doing.”

“We _didn’t_ do it.”

“Everything but, Rissy.”

“It still counts.” Her chin juts out again and he kisses her stubborn mouth.

“You’re ridiculous.” You’re mine and I love you and I want to tell everyone so that they know you’re mine. His tongue slides between her lips and his hands are gentle on her hips. Rissy bites her lip and steps back; her eyes are downcast. She looks up at him, looks right into him as she comes up on tiptoe. Her mouth lingers on his far too long to be acceptable. When her lowers herself, he comes with her, trying not to break the kiss, she giggles, her eyes flash up at him one more time, and she gives him the small smile that’s only for him--that will always be only for him from here on out--before she’s through the door and it shuts behind her.

It is Mrs. Miller in the kitchen, brewing her sugarless tea and finishing the washing up.

“Hello, Clarissa. Did you have a nice picnic with your young man?” Evie Miller’s eyes take in the wrinkled dress and damp hair of the young woman in front of her. She doesn’t say a word, not about the swollen lips, or the bare legs, or the stars in Rissa’s eyes, either. She just pours Rissa a cup of tea and turns to put the last few dishes in the drying rack to hide her own smile. She was young once, too, after all.

“Be careful, love.”

“What?” Rissa’s eyes are wide and startled. She’s waiting for reproach that never comes.

“Just be careful, dear. That’s all. Just remember that this will all end someday and you’ll both go home. God willing.” Mrs. Miller strokes her wedding band. “There are things we do, and it’s fine unless you get caught. And somehow every generation thinks they’re the first.” She might be older now, staid, but Mrs. Miller was Evangeline Austin in her youth. She married Ernest Miller at the ripe age of twenty-seven, and they did not have children for another ten years. When she found out she was with child, she cried with joy, she’d been so sure she’d never be a mother. But they traveled in those ten years, when it was possible. Even so, when the sweet baby boy was born, and even when his sister followed shortly thereafter, she retained the gypsy spirit that vexed her mother and Ernie loved her for. Her fortieth birthday was in 1922, and she was sad that she couldn’t bob her hair and be a flapper. She cut her hair anyway and Ernie liked it, or at least he said he did.

Now, that bright, beautiful and long-awaited blue-eyed boy is buried somewhere in France and his sister is a Red Cross girl who-even-knows-where. Where Evie once felt much younger than her years, she now feels like she’s aged a century since 1939. In front of Mrs. Miller stands a girl of twenty-three. She also looks younger than she is, but she has suffered, too. The other girl, the laughing French one, told her all about the lost husband, how Rissa was so forlorn and how she didn’t let anyone get close to her. Evie wants to protect her from wagging tongues. It’s not hard to see that she’s over the moon for the boy, and that the boy is so far gone over her that it isn’t funny, and they’re both hesitant and a little broken. Evie can’t judge her; she’d had a love affair or two herself.

So she’ll pretend she doesn’t know the young man has a wife; she’ll just tell Rissa to be careful: be careful with her reputation, be careful that there won’t be any impending little strangers, be careful with her heart. It’s nice, having young women in the house, hearing their teasing and laughter, how they sing when they wash and dry the dishes. Lise came home with a ring on her finger and they all exclaimed, and now here’s Clarissa, not engaged, but blooming like a flower with its face toward the sun. There’s only one thing to do.

“Sit down, darling. Tell me what you like about him.”


End file.
